


The Blood is on My Hands

by papesdontsellthemselves



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fire, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Character Death, Panic Attacks, Poor Peter, This isn't a happy fic, Yikes, but yeah, these aren't happy tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-06
Updated: 2019-06-06
Packaged: 2020-04-11 12:08:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19109356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/papesdontsellthemselves/pseuds/papesdontsellthemselves
Summary: "When you can do the things that I can, but you don't...and then the bad things happen, they happen because of you."Sometimes, you can't save everyone.  Logically, Peter knows that.  But when has logic ever won?





	The Blood is on My Hands

**Author's Note:**

> TW: fires, death, panic attacks, vomiting
> 
> I swear peter gets a hug

_Peter swung down, heels skidding slightly as he landed on the pavement in front of the burning apartment building that had caught his attention from a few miles away. In general, it looked like the situation was mostly handled. Huddles of families swarmed the surrounding block and firemen were trying, in vain, to stop the damage from spreading._

_But Peter’s spidey sense was insistent._

_“Karen, scan the building for more victims,” He murmured, poised to jump into action at the first sign of survivors._

_**‘A 20 year old male is currently taking refuge on a fire escape. Floor 20, south side.’** _

_Peter nodded, mostly to himself as he mapped out the safest route to the south side. It looked like a corner conjoining the west and south side of the building was mostly untouched. He’d start there._

_He bit his lip, aiming his webshooter to the highest point he could latch onto before launching himself into the air. Smoldering wind soared past him and he scrunched his nose, overtly grateful for his mask. Just the thought of breathing in the contaminated air made his lungs burn._

_He was able to land fairly securely on a ledge protruding from the 16th floor. He crouched down, squinting as he tried to make out anything on the 20th floor above him._

_“Which fire escape is it, Karen?” Peter pressed, the urgency of the situation starting to weigh in as a wretched groaning sounded over the roar of the nearby flames._

_**‘The one diagonal to you on your left, but I’d be careful, Peter. The scaffolding is wearing down. A collapse is bound to occur at any moment.’** _

_Peter hummed, ignoring the warning as he began to scale the wall. As he neared the targeted fire escape, he could make out the huddled shape of a person, cowering as close to the side of the building as they could manage. Another groan creaked around the fire escape._

_“Hey!” Peter called, as he leveled himself just below the escape, “I’m comin’ to help ya, hang on!”_

_The guy turned a startled eye on him, confusion etching itself across his face before being quickly replaced with relief._

_“O-Oh, Jesus, thank god,” The guy gasped, shifting onto his knees, “Please, hurry, I-”_

_Before the guy could finish his sentence, the fire escape let out another valiant whine. Peter watched in horror as the flames seemed to engulf the entire thing. It tilted forward, almost in slow motion- as if it were taunting him. He had time. He could shoot a web and secure the damn thing, or at least catch the guy. But his limbs wouldn’t work. He felt frozen._

_Then, all at once, time caught up with the situation and the fire escape detached itself completely from the wall, taking down with it surrounding scaffolding._

_The guy let out a shout and Peter seemed to snap back into his senses. He let out a matching shout as he shot a web towards the guy, but it only managed to grip a piece of the charred railing, which broke away from the rest. Peter gaped as the fire escape hit the pavement below. He could hear shouts rise from surrounding pedestrians, but nothing seemed to register. All he could see was the guy, limbs twisted at unnatural angles and blood seeping out from under him._

_He wanted to be sick. He wanted to scream, to turn back time, to do anything- anything at all to change the outcome of what had just happened. His chest tightened as the sick reality sunk in. The guy had died and Peter could have saved him._

_“Oh my god,” Peter murmured to himself. The world seemed to crash down on him as fear set in. Everything else left his mind except the primal instinct to escape._

_With a final curse, he turned and swung away._

Peter gasped, knuckles whitening as his grip on the sink tightened. He could hear a few of his fingers crack, the pressure taking a toll on their integrity, but he couldn’t find it in him to loosen his grasp. He couldn’t find it in him to do much of anything.

For how late in the night it was, the world was alarmingly loud. The cacophony of white noise that surrounded him rendered him useless to his mind, distracting him from any semblance of control. That and the noise of his memories proved to be entirely overwhelming.

He wanted to throw up.

He pried his eyes open, sick of seeing the vision of that twenty year old guy dead on the ground. 

“Fuck,” He breathed, shaking his head. _Twenty years old._ That was only five years older than him. That guy still had his entire life in front of him.

And Peter kept him from living that out.

He stared at the porcelain bowl of the sink, distantly noting how much whiter it was than his own back in Queens. Then again, everything at the compound was nicer and newer than his stuff. 

He wasn’t sure how he ended up staying at the compound for the night. If he was being honest, he wasn’t entirely sure when or how he’d even gotten there.

Everything in his mind’s eye was a blur- a jarring swirl of guilt, pain, and fear.

He wanted to throw up.

Bile rose in his throat and he lurched forward, emptying the meager contents of his stomach into the sink. The smell was putrid, snapping him somewhat out of his all-consuming thoughts.

He became acutely aware of how fast his breathing was. It barreled in and out of his lungs relentlessly, fogging up his vision and numbing his fingers. He lifted a hand to his chest, frowning as he tried to suck in a decent breath. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t breathe. Was he even getting oxygen?

Maybe he was dying. Maybe he deserved to die. He certainly deserved to more than that guy had. 

He felt himself back into the wall behind him, falling unceremoniously into a sitting position as his legs gave out. He reached up a hand to grip at his hair. God, he’d never felt so out of control in his life. Not even when he’d been kneeling over Ben, helplessly trying to stop the bleeding in his chest.

Ben. Ben was dead, too. Peter could have saved Ben, too. Ben-

“No,” he bit the word out between painful breaths. He was not going to let himself spiral that far right now. He couldn’t.

The sound of footsteps suddenly entered Peter’s auditory and he cringed, the noise proving to only hinder his mental state.

The footsteps stopped directly outside of the bathroom and Peter slammed his mouth shut, breaths still ripping through his nose at unnatural speeds. God, why couldn’t he breathe?

“Peter?”

Peter dropped his head between his knees, an inadvertent whine escaping his throat. He did not need Tony seeing him like this right now. He didn’t need anyone seeing him like this.

“Are you alright? What are you doing up? I heard you fall.”

Peter tried to stay silent, working to reign in his breathing. Maybe if he didn’t answer, Tony would go away.

“I can hear you breathing, Pete. Which, for the record, doesn’t sound too good. I’m coming in.”

The bathroom door opened slowly and Tony slipped in, letting out a small string of profanities before closing the door behind him.

“Kid, hey,” Peter could sense him kneeling next to him, “Whoa, okay, hey.”

Tony reached a tentative hand out to grip the back of his neck, tightening his hold when Peter leaned into it.

“You need to breathe, pal, c’mon.”

Peter reached a hand up to squeeze the bridge of his nose, trying to stay conscious through his haze. He was nearing hyperventilation. Or maybe he was hyperventilating. He couldn’t tell.

“Can’t,” Peter managed, “M’tryin’ n’ I can’t.”

“Shit, alright,” Tony adjusted so that he was sitting criss cross next to Peter, hand still grasping the back of his neck, “Don’t try and talk, just listen. I’m gonna squeeze the back of your neck. Every time you feel me squeeze, breathe in. Every time you feel me release, breathe out.”

Peter bit his lip, trying to focus as Tony began to apply pressure to his neck. His chest stuttered as he attempted to breathe in, and for a panicked second, he nearly succumbed back to hyperventilation. But the longing for a proper breath held him in the moment.

After ten agonising minutes, and constant assurances from Tony, Peter could suck in a breath on his own.

“There you go,” Tony muttered, “Good?”

 

Peter swallowed, feeling thoroughly drained and lightheaded, “Think so,” He winced at how scratchy his voice was. He scrubbed a hand down his face, eyebrows furrowing when it came away wet. When had he been crying?

He leaned his head back against the wall, closing his eyes as he allowed his hand to loosely grip the collar of his stiff night shirt. 

Tony squeezed the back of his neck once more before withdrawing it, “Right, good,” he paused for a moment and Peter could feel his eyes on him, but he couldn’t find it in himself to be embarrassed.

“What happened there, kid?”

Peter took a shaky breath, opening his mouth to answer but stopping short.

“Did you get sick?” Tony asked and Peter opened his eyes to find him peering up at the sink.

“Yeah,” his voice was low and tired, “Sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for,” Tony said, “I’ll clean it up later, no worries.”

Peter hummed.

“Okay, kiddo, we need to talk about this, but let’s get somewhere where your sense of smell won’t be screwed by that,” he gestured to the sink before standing, “You think you can stand on your own?”

Peter blinked owlishly, moving sluggishly to grip at the towel bar above him. He hauled himself up, keeping his hold on the bar as the blood rushed away from his face. He was shaky as hell, but he could stand.

“Yeah, m’good,” He said, running a hand through his tangled curls. 

“My room or your room?” Tony asked, voice indifferent so Peter could choose genuinely.

“Um,” Peter shifted his jaw, feeling mildly irritated that his mind was being so slow, “My room...yeah.”

“You sure, bud?” Tony raised an eye at him, “It’s fine either way.”

“Actually, can we go to the kitchen?” Peter asked, voice gaining some strength back, “I want water.”

“Kitchen, got it,” Tony nodded decisively, “c’mon.”

Peter followed him in a dazed silence, legs moving robotically as they entered the elevator down to the common level. A few moments later, he found himself perched at the kitchen counter, glass of water secured between his palms and Tony sitting across from him, instructing him to take small sips.

Tony waited until he’d finished the glass before the questions sparked up once more.

“Has that ever happened to you before?”

Peter shrugged, “Uh, dunno. Think something like it happened once after Ben...yeah.”

“Do you know what it was?” Tony was studying him with an expression he couldn’t place. 

Peter shook his head.

“Okay,” Tony sighed, eyes flicking away as he seemed to mull over a few options in his head, “We’ll tackle that can of worms another time. For now, can you tell me what caused it?”

 

Peter dropped his gaze to the countertop, visions of the fire and the guy and the fire escape flooding back into his mind.

“Whoa, where’d ya go?” Tony pulled him back before he could sink too deep, “If this is too much right now we can put a raincheck on this conversation ‘til tomorrow and-”

“No,” Peter cut him off, clearing his throat, “It’s fine, um…” he fiddled with the glass, trying to keep his hands from shaking too violently, “Earlier, there was a fire in-”

“Brooklyn, yeah I saw,” Tony grimaced. 

“Yeah,” Peter continued, “And I got to the scene kinda late so people were mostly out but there was this one guy stuck on his fire escape,” he broke off momentarily, hand flying to his thigh. He squeezed, trying to ground himself, “And he...well, the fire escape broke off and I don’t know, Mr. Stark, I froze and it fell and the guy-” 

The seemingly permanent lump in his throat rose once more and he reached his other hand back up to yank at the hairs at the nape of his neck. Heat rushed to his face as his composure crumpled. It took him a moment to realize that the keening sounds he heard were coming from him.

“It’s my fault, Mr. Stark,” he sobbed, “I don’t know why I froze, but- I- I couldn’t, I didn’t-”

“Kid, hey,” Tony rushed around the counter, hands hovering awkwardly over his shoulders before Peter leaned into him. 

It was all Tony needed to cave and Peter fisted his shirt in his hand as steady, strong arms were wrapped around him. Everything hurt and he was so, so scared. Scared of the guilt, scared of death, scared that the guy had been so young, scared that it could have been him- that any one of these days he spent web-slinging could be his last. Scared that he was taking on this load. He was just a kid.

He was just a scared kid. 

Tony let him cry until all he could manage were small hiccups. Even when he’d thoroughly worn himself out, he kept his embrace around him tight. 

“In this...line of work, shit happens. We try, god knows we try to save everyone and we all do a damn decent job of doing that. But, you gotta know, kid. You gotta know that there’s always that one case where the odds don’t line up exactly or shit just doesn’t work out. There’s nothing you could have done, Pete.”

Peter wanted to argue. He wanted to scream that he tried to save him, but failed. Because he had. He’d truly and utterly failed. And the guy was dead because of that.

“It doesn’t mean it was your fault simply because you were there to witness the inevitable.” 

Peter lifted his head a fraction, the finality of Tony’s words holding some sort of weight to them that seemed to lift some off his own shoulders. 

“I...I froze, though,” Peter whispered, “And when I finally unfroze, it was too late. I missed.”

Tony thought for a moment, pulling back a little, “Kid, have you ever heard of the fight, flight, or freeze response?”

Peter shook his head, frowning, “I thought it was just fight or flight?”

“I mean, it is, but there’s also freeze. It was added recently or something. Fight or flight is when your subconscious knows there’s something that could truly be done. Freeze is when there isn’t hope. I think you subconsciously knew there wasn’t a way to stop the fire escape from falling.”

The words made sense. Applying logic to the situation _made sense._ But it still hurt so much. He still hurt so much.

“Will this ever get easier?” Peter asked, his voice small and tired.

Tony sighed, “‘Course it does, kiddo. It sucks. It’s gonna keep sucking, but you’re gonna get through this. You’re hands down the strongest kid I know and if anyone’s going to rise from this god awful shit, it’s you.”

Peter leaned back into him in lieu of an answer. He didn’t _feel_ strong. He felt like crap. But it helped to feel Tony’s presence and comfort.

“And you know what, kid?” Tony asked softly, placing a hand on top of his head.

“Hm?”

“I’ve got you. I’m not gonna let you fall. That’s a promise I made to myself and god forbid I don’t make it to you.”

Emotion welled up in Peter’s chest and he haphazardly wrapped his arms around Tony’s middle, “Thanks, Mr. Stark.”

He felt a hand run through his hair, “I got you, kiddo.”

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading, chiefs  
> feedback is always appreciated!


End file.
